even, would mean living in luxury for a day—buying food, buying a beer from one of the illegal distilleries operating in the Foundry Quarter—without the risks associated with stealing.
He scanned the piles of rubble and the broken and charred beams for entry points. The obvious one was a gaping hole near the ocean end of the warehouse, a dark space wide enough for two men to enter abreast. But it seemed too obvious. He moved as quietly as he could towards the opening, but with the intention of entering it only as a last resort. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the soldiers watching him from the safety of a doorway in the front facade. He wondered if they were anticipating he would bolt. It was still an option. Then he noticed seagulls congregating on the crest of a large pile of rubble several paces short of the dark entry hole. Food scraps , he reasoned and grinned as he circled out of the soldiers’ direct line of vision.
The seagulls scattered, squawking in protest, as he approached. He carefully assessed the rubble, looking for a sign—and spotted the rotted tabletop lying across the stones on an angle. He crept to it, and checked again that the soldiers couldn’t see him, before he slid the wood aside to uncover a manhole in the rubble. Not ingenious , he concluded as he listened and looked in, buteasy to protect . The squawking seagulls were a nuisance because they prevented him from hearing any sounds that might betray a guard inside the hole. He could still sneak away; the soldiers would never find him again. But there was easy money in this—and he’d never actually been down in the Warren.
He slid into the hole feet first, and struggled in fright as strong hands grabbed his ankles.
‘How scrawny are the rats getting?’ taunted a dark-skinned man with a gap between his yellowed front teeth as he prodded Runner’s ribs. ‘No point eating this one. All gristle and bone.’
‘What brought you in here, lad?’ asked a lanky, hook-nosed individual with long greying hair.
‘I’ve got a letter for Mad Dog,’ Runner replied, straining against the grip that pinned his arms to his sides. In the yellow lantern light, he glimpsed a stretch of brickwork, which he assumed was part of the warehouse’s cellar. He’d kicked and bitten as they wrenched him down the tunnel and bundled him into the chamber.
‘This?’ said the dark-skinned man, holding up the piece of paper he’d fished from Runner’s only pocket. He unfolded it and held it up to the lantern. ‘Can’t read it,’ he said.
‘Cos you can’t read!’ the hook-nosed man ridiculed. ‘Give it to me.’
‘Why?’ the first man asked. ‘You can’t read either.’
‘If it’s meant for Dingo, then I’m giving it to him. He’ll rip off your nuts if you mess around with his letter,’ said the hook-nosed man, and he held out his hand until his companion begrudgingly passed him the letter.
‘Who’s it from?’ he asked Runner.
‘A soldier,’ Runner answered.
‘Dingo’s getting love letters from soldiers now, is he?’ the dark-skinned man scoffed, and the man holding Runner laughed along with him.
‘So what do we do with this street filth?’ he said.
‘You let the lad go,’ said a firm voice, its deep tone enhanced by a faint echo in the chamber.
Runner’s arms were released, and he shook them to restore his circulation as he stepped away from his guard and assessed the speaker. The man was very slim, of average height, and had unremarkable features except that his head was shaved like a Jarudhan acolyte. He approached Runner, his face expressionless, and asked, ‘What’s your name?’
Runner was tempted to give his habitual ‘None of your business’ reply, but the man’s demeanour warned him not to take risks. ‘Runner,’ he said.
‘Odd name to give a lad,’ the man noted. ‘Street kid?’
‘I look after myself,’ Runner replied haughtily.
‘Most of us do,’ the man replied. ‘Do you know who I
He scanned the piles of rubble and the broken and charred beams for entry points. The obvious one was a gaping hole near the ocean end of the warehouse, a dark space wide enough for two men to enter abreast. But it seemed too obvious. He moved as quietly as he could towards the opening, but with the intention of entering it only as a last resort. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the soldiers watching him from the safety of a doorway in the front facade. He wondered if they were anticipating he would bolt. It was still an option. Then he noticed seagulls congregating on the crest of a large pile of rubble several paces short of the dark entry hole. Food scraps , he reasoned and grinned as he circled out of the soldiers’ direct line of vision.
The seagulls scattered, squawking in protest, as he approached. He carefully assessed the rubble, looking for a sign—and spotted the rotted tabletop lying across the stones on an angle. He crept to it, and checked again that the soldiers couldn’t see him, before he slid the wood aside to uncover a manhole in the rubble. Not ingenious , he concluded as he listened and looked in, buteasy to protect . The squawking seagulls were a nuisance because they prevented him from hearing any sounds that might betray a guard inside the hole. He could still sneak away; the soldiers would never find him again. But there was easy money in this—and he’d never actually been down in the Warren.
He slid into the hole feet first, and struggled in fright as strong hands grabbed his ankles.
‘How scrawny are the rats getting?’ taunted a dark-skinned man with a gap between his yellowed front teeth as he prodded Runner’s ribs. ‘No point eating this one. All gristle and bone.’
‘What brought you in here, lad?’ asked a lanky, hook-nosed individual with long greying hair.
‘I’ve got a letter for Mad Dog,’ Runner replied, straining against the grip that pinned his arms to his sides. In the yellow lantern light, he glimpsed a stretch of brickwork, which he assumed was part of the warehouse’s cellar. He’d kicked and bitten as they wrenched him down the tunnel and bundled him into the chamber.
‘This?’ said the dark-skinned man, holding up the piece of paper he’d fished from Runner’s only pocket. He unfolded it and held it up to the lantern. ‘Can’t read it,’ he said.
‘Cos you can’t read!’ the hook-nosed man ridiculed. ‘Give it to me.’
‘Why?’ the first man asked. ‘You can’t read either.’
‘If it’s meant for Dingo, then I’m giving it to him. He’ll rip off your nuts if you mess around with his letter,’ said the hook-nosed man, and he held out his hand until his companion begrudgingly passed him the letter.
‘Who’s it from?’ he asked Runner.
‘A soldier,’ Runner answered.
‘Dingo’s getting love letters from soldiers now, is he?’ the dark-skinned man scoffed, and the man holding Runner laughed along with him.
‘So what do we do with this street filth?’ he said.
‘You let the lad go,’ said a firm voice, its deep tone enhanced by a faint echo in the chamber.
Runner’s arms were released, and he shook them to restore his circulation as he stepped away from his guard and assessed the speaker. The man was very slim, of average height, and had unremarkable features except that his head was shaved like a Jarudhan acolyte. He approached Runner, his face expressionless, and asked, ‘What’s your name?’
Runner was tempted to give his habitual ‘None of your business’ reply, but the man’s demeanour warned him not to take risks. ‘Runner,’ he said.
‘Odd name to give a lad,’ the man noted. ‘Street kid?’
‘I look after myself,’ Runner replied haughtily.
‘Most of us do,’ the man replied. ‘Do you know who I
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